


His Heavy Eyes

by wordaddiction



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Insomnia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-29
Updated: 2013-08-29
Packaged: 2017-12-25 01:29:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordaddiction/pseuds/wordaddiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras can't sleep, but finds that being near an unknowing Grantaire gives him the rest he can't find anywhere else. To save himself from insomnia, he sneaks into the artist's apartment to lay beside him, hoping he won't wake up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Heavy Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a post from ibelieveinyoumyapollo. Thanks for letting me use the idea!

“Enjolras,” Combeferre sighed and planted his coffee mug on the table beside his friend’s, which was accompanied by a mess of papers and uncapped pens. He had his laptop open, his eyes transfixed on the screen as he tapped away hurriedly. “Did you sleep last night?”

The blonde didn’t respond for practically a full minute, his head too involved with the essay that just _wouldn’t_ come out right. Eventually, he glanced up and shrugged. “Not really,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee.

Combeferre frowned and took the mug from his hand, earning him an annoyed scowl from the other. “What about the night before?”

“I couldn’t,”

The bespectacled man sagged his shoulders. Enjolras had been appearing at the café with dark circles humming beneath his eyes and tousled hair for nearly a month, now. He was lethargic and snappy, and Combeferre knew that he often had a headache because he always kneaded his right temple when he did. Before, it just seemed like he was a normal college student before finals—too much to cram in not enough time to cram it. But finals had come and gone, and Enjolras was still showing up in a daze, sleepless and sad.

“This isn’t healthy, Enj. You’ve got to do something about it,”

The blonde shook his head. “I’ve tried everything. Pills, white noise, all of it. It won’t work,”

“Well you can’t just live off of no sleep!”

Enjolras sighed and stopped typing, giving his friend his full attention for a brief moment. “There are plenty of insomniacs out there. They’ve managed to survive, and so will I,” he assured. Combeferre scowled and got up, taking the other’s coffee cup with him.

“At the very least, stop drinking the damn coffee. It’ll only keep you awake,”

“Whatever you say, mother,” Enjolras waved him off and returned to typing his essay, his hand drifting up to rub at his right temple.

•••

Nearly two hours later, Grantaire shuffled into the café and seated himself at the coffee bar to order a small cappuccino. Enjolras glanced up from his laptop once he recognized the sound of the artist’s voice, clear against the low mumbles of the rest of the customers. Grantaire caught sight of him and grinned, wagging his fingers in the blonde’s direction. Enjolras offered a tight smile and returned the wave, then quickly buried his face back in his writing.

“Hey,” R greeted, now standing before him with a cup in his hands. “Mind if I sit?”

Enjolras looked at the empty chair in front of him and shrugged, hardly taking another second away from his screen. “Sure,” he said.

Grantaire settled into the seat and looked about the room as he held the cup close to his face, letting the steam warm his skin. “What’re you writing?”

“Just an essay for Lit,”

“Sounds highly intriguing,” the brunette drawled, turning his gaze to the other.

“It is, actually,” Enjolras was incredibly bad at picking up on sarcasm. He skirted his eyes past the screen to sneak a glance at the brunette before him, who was watching him with half a smile and tapping his fingers against his cup. “Was there something you wanted?”

Grantaire raised his eyebrows and laughed. “Just a chat,” he grinned. “But if I’m interrupting—“

“No, it’s alright. I just didn’t know…”

“It’s fine, I’ll let you get back to your work,” The man stood, stretching his back as he did so in a manner that Enjolras found extremely distracting. He furrowed his brow.

“You don’t have to—“

“Seeya, Enjy,” he called, gulping down the last of his cappuccino and waving as he walked out.

“Don’t call me that!” Enjolras yelled after him, but he was already gone. He sank back into his chair and stared at his screen, though he wasn’t typing anymore. Grantaire was so fleeting. He would be there for a moment, and then he’d just vanish, like he had somewhere better to go, or someone better to see. It caused particular problems when he would duck out early from the meetings. That, the leader thought, was unacceptable. If he was a part of Les Amis, then he needed to be in attendance, just like everybody else. And yet he continued to let him into the meetings the next day with little more than a scolding and a blatant coldness for the rest of the day.

Even now, the artist’s quickness bothered him. He had only just sat down, and he was already scampering off. At least he could have had the decency to converse for a while.

•••

That night, Enjolras finally returned to his flat. It was almost ten o’clock, and though he had finished his essay, he still had to sort through the flyers for the protest on Saturday that Grantaire said he would drop off. He deposited his computer on the table and looked around. Most of the amis had a key to his apartment. It was just easier than having to be home to let them in all the time, and there were often instances that they needed to drop things off or pick things up. Although this was the case today, Enjolras couldn’t find the flyers anywhere. When he did a thorough search throughout the apartment and came up with empty hands, he heaved a great sigh. Of course Grantaire hadn’t followed through.

Enjolras grabbed his coat and headed over to the artist’s flat, which was only a few blocks from his own. Peeved and prepared to berate, he knocked loudly on the door. But there was no answer. He knocked again and waited, but still he was alone. He sighed and tried the knob. As usual, Grantaire had left his apartment open. _The idiot_ , Enjolras thought. _Someone’s going to rob him one day._

The blonde peered inside.

“Grantaire?” he called, stepping into the living room and shutting the door. “I’m here to get the flyers!”

Enjolras had only been to Grantaire’s apartment once before, when he had first gotten it. The man was so ecstatic to finally be living away from his horrid roommate that he had invited everyone over for drinks. The amis sat on the bare wooden floor amongst stacks of cardboard boxes, laughing and drinking. Everyone was so glad to see him happy that they didn’t even mind when he got horrifically drunk, though that might have had to do with the fact that everyone else was, too. In fact, many of them couldn’t remember what had happened when they woke the next morning. But Enjolras, who always limited himself to two drinks, could clearly recall the way everyone had warn smiles like banners across their cheeks, and Joly had contemplated the use of vodka as rubbing alcohol, and Eponine had tried to kiss an extremely surprised Jehan. And Enjolras could remember Grantaire, his sloppy smile the biggest of all of them, his wild curls flying every which way as he draped himself over the blonde’s lap. He fell asleep with his head resting on Enjolras’ leg. The man had stayed there for the night, like the rest of them, but left before anyone awoke.

Now, the apartment was incredibly different. It was barely furnished, but there were paintings _everywhere_. On the chairs, on the tables, against the walls, on the floors. Art supplies littered every surface, and Enjolras thought he even saw a bit of clay in the far corner. He sifted through some drawings on his way through the room.

“Grantaire?” he called again. Maybe he left the flyers out. Enjolras scanned the room for brightly colored paper. Of course, there was plenty of it. But upon further inspection, it only turned out to be a bit of trial origami and some crumpled watercolors. The leader stuck his head in the small kitchen and glanced around, but still came up with nothing.

Finally, he decided it wouldn’t hurt to check the last room. He was already here, after all, and it would be a shame to have missed them. He opened the door to Grantaire’s bedroom gently and peered inside. It was dark, but not completely, and the faint glow of a dimmed light allowed for him to cast his eyes around for the paper. What they stopped on, however, was not a flyer at all, but a body.

Grantaire was curled up in his bed, a blanket tangled around his lower abdomen, his arm tucked beneath him. He looked so completely peaceful that Enjolras had to step closer, just because he had never seen such an expression on the cynic’s face. It was calm and uninterrupted by thought. Enjolras smiled despite himself. Who would have thought it were possible for Grantaire to exist a moment without making a joke or a sarcastic comment?

Perhaps it was the sight of Grantaire so blissfully asleep, the lack of rest Enjolras had received recently, or some unfortunate combination of the two, but the blonde suddenly became so overcome with exhaustion that he sat down on the edge of the artist’s bed for fear of falling over. He twisted a hand through his own curls and felt his eyelids droop. The flyers weren’t here. It was time to go home. But the thought of walking all the way back to his flat, despite it only being a few blocks, nearly made him physically ill. His head was heavy and the pillow looked so fantastically tempting…

No, he couldn’t just sleep in Grantaire’s bed. It would make quite the encounter when the artist woke up, and he didn’t particularly feel like explaining that it was the first time he felt he might actually be able to sleep in three days. Enjolras groaned inwardly and made to get up, but immediately regretted doing so. His head spun and he fell back down onto the sheet.

“ _Mon dieu_ ,” he muttered, lifting a hand to his forehead. He couldn’t believe how horrible the timing was. He glanced back at the sleeping figure and took a deep breath. He would just nap for an hour or two and leave before Grantaire woke. He was _so_ tired…

Enjolras lay down beside Grantaire and let out a huge breath. He thought that the artist’s bed was quite possibly the most comfortable thing he had ever experienced. The softness of the sheets combined with the familiar scent of the other man made him fall asleep so instantly that he didn’t even remember lying down in the first place.

When he awoke, it was nearly dawn. His eyes widened as he glanced at the clock. Instead of an hour, he had been there for six. He snapped his head to Grantaire, but found that he was still in the exact same position he had been the night before, and heaved a sigh of relief. He wasted no time in hurrying out the door, lucky enough to have fallen asleep with his shoes on.

•••

“Wait a minute,” Combeferre stopped Enjolras in the line at the café, gripping his shoulders as he searched his eyes thoroughly. “You slept last night,”

Enjolras blushed. He knew. He knew what happened, and was going to call him out on it. What had he done? “I—yeah, a bit,” he stammered.

Combeferre grinned and clapped him on the back. “What was it? Pills? Warm milk before bed?”

“Someone read you a bed time story?” Enjolras turned at the new voice and froze as Grantaire sauntered into line, beaming as he cut in front of both of them.

“Morning Sunshine,” Combeferre rolled his eyes, but made no protest at Grantaire’s movement. “I imagine you’re here for your daily hangover-curing-cappuccino,”

Grantaire winked and headed up to the counter. “One hangover-curing-cappuccino, please,” The barista laughed and put in the order.

“You drank last night?” Enjolras asked. He had been in bed sort of early, only about ten o’clock. And he had smelled like vanilla and acrylics, not alcohol…It was a rather nice scent, actually.

“Nah, I think I just have a perpetual hangover,”

“Maybe if you didn’t drink so often…” Combeferre said.

“Oh, you’re adorable, ‘Ferre. Attempting to look out for my wellbeing once again,” Grantaire laughed and placed a dramatic kiss on the man’s forehead, then turned to take his cup of coffee from the woman at the counter, who was sending him a flirtatious smile. “Unfortunately, I believe I have already promised myself a heart attack in my early forties, so I must hold true to my word,”

Enjolras scowled and stepped up to order his coffee, but turned to face Grantaire. There was no way he could have known, right?

“I’m glad you didn’t drink last night,” he said. Grantaire looked up at him and smiled.

“That so?”

Enjolras felt his cheeks flush and he turned back around. “You never brought me the flyers,” he muttered.

“Yes, I did! I gave them to Courfeyrac! I saw him on my way to your flat and he said he’d get them to you. Did he not?”

The blonde groaned and accepted his coffee from the waitress, who didn’t smile half as widely as she had at the other. “You trusted Courf to do something that required punctuality?”

Grantaire knit his eyebrows together. “He offered…”

“He probably saw a girl on the way and decided she was more important,” Enjolras spat with disgust. He waited for Combeferre to get his drink and led the three of them to sit down by the window.

“It’ll be alright,” ‘Ferre assured, sipping his tea.

“I need those flyers!”

“Relax,” Grantaire sighed. “I’ll make some new ones today and personally deliver them,”

Enjolras fidgeted in his chair and eyed the artist. “No medians?”

“No medians.”

•••

Grantaire held true to his word. That night, he arrived at Enjolras’ flat wearing a wide grin and carrying a large stack of neon green paper.

“I brought you a present,” he chimed, stepping into the leader’s flat without invitation. Enjolras shut the door behind him and took the stack from his arms.

“Whatever could it be?”

Grantaire shifted his gaze around the apartment. He had been there plenty of times before, but he was still amazed by how pristine it always appeared to be. The tables were clear, the floor vacuumed, and there were never any dishes on the counter. The artist wondered if Enjolras made a point to only buy books of the same size so they would look neat on his shelves.

“Two hundred flyers to change the minds of millions, fresh off the press,” he replied brightly, returning his eyes to the blonde.

Enjolras looked down at the paper. The large headline he had created stood out at the top, the article Combeferre wrote directly beneath it. They had left a space for Grantaire to add a drawing to go along with the two, but now that space was filled with a brilliant depiction of a man being beaten against a tree. He was hunched over and crumpled, his clothes ripped and his eyes hollow. It was violent without being graphic, and moving without being insulting. It was perfect. Enjolras met Grantaire’s eyes.

“This is wonderful,” he said.

“I only had to bring them to the shop—“

“The drawing, Grantaire. The drawing is perfect,”

Grantaire bent an arm back to run his fingers through his hair as he let out a short laugh. “Thanks, Enjy,”

The blonde furrowed his brow. “I told you not to call me that,”

“And I told you not to button the last button on your shirt because it makes you look like a middle aged man, but we can’t always get what we want,” he smiled and stuck his hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels. Enjolras scoffed and rolled his eyes. “I should be going,”

“Oh, er…do you want anything? Coffee or water or food or something?” the leader asked, suddenly aware of how late it was/ He could feel another sleepless night approaching, and didn’t look forward to the hours of lying awake in bed or typing at his computer that awaited him. The worst of it was probably that no one was ever awake to sit with him or talk to him, something that he found he only longed for in those dead hours of early dawn, when it was impossible to find. As soon as Grantaire left, he would be alone once again, with nothing but his own eyelids to keep him company.

Grantaire smiled and shook his head. “Nah, that’s alright. I’ve got to get to bed,”

“Why so early? I had you pegged as more of a night owl,” Enjolras asked nonchalantly.

“I am by nature, but I’ve been taking these sleeping pills to help regulate my sleep cycle. I’m supposed to take them at the same time every night,”

Enjolras felt a pang in his chest. If only a pill would force _his_ eyes shut and send him into a slumber deep enough that it could not be disturbed, even by a man yelling throughout his house or lying beside him in bed.

“These pills—they give you a good night’s sleep? Make you feel rested?”

Grantaire nodded. “Yeah, you should try them. I sleep for almost nine hours, and I’ve never woken up during the night while I’m on them. It’s kind of scary, almost, but it’s not like a sedative. I’d wake up if I had to,” he grabbed a pad of paper and a pen that was sitting on the nearby desk and scribbled the name of the pill down, then handed it to Enjolras. The blonde studied the name for a moment, lost in thought.

“I’ll have to try it,”

“Or do whatever you did last night,” Grantaire shrugged. “You seemed rested today, like Combeferre said,”

Enjolras felt a blush creep into his cheeks despite his internal protestations. “Er…yeah, I think I’ll try the pills,” he muttered, crumpling the paper into his hand and shoving it into his pocket. Grantaire raised an eyebrow, but did not pursue it further.

“Well, I best be off, then. A deep and heavy sleep awaits me. I wish the same to you,”

“Thanks,” Enjolras offered a tight smile and walked Grantaire to the door, waving him off as he walked down the hallway. If only it were that easy.

•••

The following three nights were sleepless and persistent. Enjolras attempted a multitude of solutions, including the pills that Grantaire had suggested. They made him feel heavy and slow, but did not keep him from lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, pretending he was just about to drift off. In the end, he always found himself back at the computer, finishing up emails or reading up on all of the social justice blogs he kept track of. The lack of sleep was annoying and sometimes downright painful, but it did allow for more time to work. By the end of the three days, however, he didn’t know how much more of it he could handle.

Grantaire had been showing up at the café every morning, chipper and sarcastic as ever. Enjolras envied his vivaciousness. It was hard enough having Combeferre fretting about his health all of the time, but Grantaire’s success with the pills was like a big slap in the face, and he continuously found his mind wandering back to the one night he had obtained an actually acceptable amount of rest. If only the circumstances had been acceptable, as well.

By the fourth night, Enjolras began to reevaluate his options. He was so tired that he was beginning to hear a ringing sound in the back of his head, and his vision was blurring around the edges. But whenever he lay down to sleep, no matter how exhausted he felt, it never came. Finally, after downing two of Grantaire’s pills (instead of the suggested one) and banging his head against a cabinet repeatedly, Enjolras grabbed his coat. There was simply no other choice.

He let himself into the artist’s apartment for the second time, shutting the door behind him and padding softly through the apartment. Being there felt wrong. He was essentially breaking in to his friend’s house, and his intent could probably be considered some form of sexual harassment. But he was _so tired_. He entered Grantaire’s room and saw him curled around his pillow, shifted more to the center this time than last. He deposited his coat and shoes on a chair in the corner and stood in front of the bed. For a moment, he just watched the rise and fall of the brunette’s bare chest, the softness of his features as he dozed, and the way his hair splayed about his face wildly, even in unconsciousness. Was he really going to do this?

Yes, it turned out. He was. He climbed into bed, beneath the covers this time, and let out a large breath as his head hit the pillow. Immediately, he felt the drowsiness overtake him. He allowed it to seize his body without protest, and smiled as he drifted into a slumber that he could not have been more thankful for.

He woke to the feeling of hot breath against his neck. At first, it did not occur to him that everything about this situation was abnormal—the implication that he was with another person and the fact that he had even woken up at all (meaning that he had fallen asleep in the first place). After a minute of simply enjoying the warmth of it and the feeling of a heaviness across his abdomen, he finally snapped open his eyes.

It was 6:26 am, and Grantaire’s arm was draped over Enjolras’ waist. His lips were nearly touching the back of the blonde’s neck, and his breathing was evident not only in the hot air but in the rise and fall of his chest against Enjolras’ back. The leader silently panicked. How had he let this happen? Had Grantaire woken up? Would he wake up (possibly again) if Enjolras moved?

Eventually, the blonde decided that it was worth the risk. If Grantaire hadn’t woken up, and simply shifted in his sleep, then this would call for a lot of questions that he would prefer not to answer. And if he didn’t move, answering those questions would be inevitable. He gently rolled out from beneath the brunette’s touch, wishing for a moment that he could still feel his breath against his neck. With one final look at the sleeping man, he shook the thought from his head and grabbed his shoes and jacket, then returned home.

•••

“Grantaire, did you bring beer?” Courfeyrac yelled at the man over the thunderous music booming from the speakers lining the room. Students were swarming the house, which was Cosette’s, filling every corner and crevice with chatter and laughter. A select few had chosen the living room as a dance floor and were using it to their full advantage, while others were milling about and wandering where they liked. Enjolras stood stiffly next to Combeferre. Parties were not his favorite occasions.

Grantaire grinned and held up a case of alcohol, along with two large bottles of vodka. “You didn’t think I’d disappoint, did you? Please, Courfeyrac. I have a reputation as a raging drunk to uphold,”

Courfeyrac slammed the man on the back and shoved the beer onto the counter, cracking open the case and passing them around. “Can always count on you, R,”

“Always,”

Enjolras watched the exchange, but hardly realized that Courfeyrac was sauntering up to him until he was standing two feet away, holding out a bottle.

“No thanks, I’m driving,” he said, holding up his hand to politely decline.

“Ah, come on, Enjy! Have a little fun!”

“Why does everyone insist on calling me that?” he scowled.

“Because it’s cute and it irritates you,” Courfeyrac grinned and tapped his nose, an action which frustrated the blonde even more, then slipped off into the throng of people. Enjolras turned to Combeferre.

“Is it really that amusing?” he asked sourly.

Combeferre pursed his lips and brought his own drink to his mouth. “A little,”

Enjolras rolled his eyes and wandered off into the living room, where he fell witness to a group of students dancing animatedly to a song with a heavy base line. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and leaned against the wall, unable to keep his eyes away from a particular brunette. He was wild and clumsy on the dance floor, but not in a way that appeared awkward. He grinned as he twirled a small girl around, a beer in his other hand. There was something about the way he moved so freely and without worry that made Enjolras wonder what it would be like to think like that. To be able to just…let go. Enjolras was passionate and had a strong spirit, but he spent it on entirely different things than the artist. He spent it on protests and rallies and freedom, instead of alcohol and parties and socializing. For the most part, the blonde was profoundly convinced that his use of passion was the better—it aided a country and a group of people. It brought justice where justice would not otherwise be served, and that alone seemed enough of a reason to do as he did. Still, watching Grantaire made him wonder if there was something he was doing wrong. He always seemed so _happy_.

Enjolras was so lost in his internal wandering that he hardly noticed the brunette approaching him, much like he had not realized Courfeyrac, until he was reaching out to grab his hand.

“Dance with me, Enjy!”

Enjolras’ eyes grew wide and he pulled back fiercely. “No, I don’t dance,”

“And I don’t care. It was not a request,” Grantaire tugged him to the heart of the makeshift dance floor and wrapped his arms around his neck, half jumping to the beat of the song. “Well don’t just _stand_ there,” he laughed.

Enjolras watched Grantaire in a daze. He was still unsure if he had woken up the previous night or not, and this was the first they had really spoken since Grantaire had dropped the flyers off at his house five days earlier. The blonde searched for clues in his face, but found only mellow joy and a large smile that gave away nothing. He shifted awkwardly beneath the artist’s arms and knew that his cheeks were blazing.

Grantaire rolled his eyes and grabbed Enjolras’ arms, threw them around his own waist, and returned his hands to clasp behind the leader’s neck. He led them in some sort of mix between dancing and bouncing, which only made Enjolras’ cheeks burn more. He wasn’t lying when he said he didn’t dance. He _couldn’t_ dance. He could barely walk, really. Somehow it didn’t really seem to matter right now, however, as Grantaire was still laughing and grinning stupidly.

“This is horrible,” Enjolras yelled over the blare of music.

“No, it’s _fun_. I doubt you’ve heard of the term,”

Enjolras pursed his lips and tugged Grantaire’s hips closer, jumping more defiantly in response. The artist’s eyebrow shot up, but the grin did not leave his face. “I can be fun,” he warned.

“So you say,”

Suddenly, the song ended and a large portion of the crowd dispersed, only to be joined by a new group of people who fell in step for the next song.

“I should…go find Combeferre,” Enjolras swallowed, shifting his gaze away from the artist.

“Why, does he need you?” Grantaire grabbed another beer from a table as they walked towards the doorway to the other room and popped the cap.

“Well, no, but….hey,” Enjolras glanced over at the bottle raised to his lips and puzzled over it. “Won’t the alcohol react badly with your sleeping pills?”

Grantaire shrugged. “One would think. But I am far too in love with the drink to deny it, so my pills will have to put up with the adultery,”

“I really don’t think—“

“It’s alright, Enjy. I’ll be fine. Speaking of which, it’s about time for me to head home. Thanks for the dance,” R slipped his half-finished beer into the blonde’s hand and gave his shoulder a firm squeeze before disappearing down the hall.

Enjolras watched him until he was no longer visible, then stood there in the middle of the doorway for a moment too long.

“Don’t call me that,” he muttered to no one.

•••

Enjolras returned to Grantaire’s apartment repeatedly over the next three weeks. If not every night, then very near to it. And every night, he would fall asleep almost instantly after curling into the artist’s grasp. And every morning, he would wake up so entangled in the other’s limbs that it amazed him he ever got out without waking him. It was a strange routine, one that he would not have resorted to under any other circumstances, but it worked. And everyone noticed it.

“What _have_ you been doing?” Combeferre asked one morning as a few of the amis chatted over their coffee and bagels. “You’ve been getting sleep nearly every night,”

Enjolras glanced over at Grantaire, who was deep in conversation with Courfeyrac, then looked back down at his coffee. “I uh…R told me about these pills,” It wasn’t completely a lie.

“Oh, and they work?”

“They definitely help,” the blonde raised his cup to his lips and avoided eye contact.

“Well I’m glad you’ve finally found something that does,” Combeferre smiled and turned to discuss T-shirt designs with Cosette.

 _As am I_ , he thought.

Enjolras often wondered _why_ sleeping beside Grantaire was the only way he could ever achieve a night’s rest. Was it something about the man’s calming form? Or his vanilla-acrylic scent? Or perhaps just the feeling of someone—anyone—near him, close enough to wrap his arms around. He supposed there were ways of finding out whether it would work with just anyone, but the routine he had worked, and he didn’t see the point in messing it up. And, though he may never admit it, Enjolras had come to enjoy the nightly trip to the artist’s house. He looked forward to curling into his bed and tangling their arms together, feeling his smooth breath exit his always slightly-parted lips. He told himself it was because he was not used to being able to sleep, and the lure of shut-eye was a reward in itself. But there was a part of him, no matter how veiled that part was, that enjoyed just seeing the man in such a peaceful state every night. And it was that part that continued to draw him to Grantaire’s apartment, and none of the other’s.

One evening, Enjolras was returning to his flat from a lecture. He shuffled down the cobbled path with his bag slung over his sagging shoulder and his hands tucked into his pockets. He was just noticing how early the sun had been setting recently when he noticed a familiar mess of black curls out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head to affirm his suspicion, and found the artist sitting on a bench overlooking the river. Enjolras debated approaching him. Ever since he had begun his nightly visits, he had felt a paranoia around the man that would not go away. It was a feeling of knowing-something-you-aren’t-supposed-to-know, and it caused him to push the brunette away like he never had before, even though the desire to be near him was stronger now than it was before. Eventually, he decided to walk up and sit beside him on the bench.

“Hey,” he greeted. Grantaire seemed to jump, as if he had been asleep, and looked over at his company. He smiled when he saw who it was.

“Enjolras!” he cried. “What are you doing here?”

“I was just on my way home,”

“Oh, right. University’s up that way, isn’t it?” he turned his head back to the water and Enjolras noticed his eyes nearly glaze over. The blonde tilted his head.

“Have I interrupted something?”

Grantaire shook his head ever so slightly, but kept his eyes on the subtle waves. “Nothing of importance. Just my wandering mind,”

“That seems rather important to me. What are you thinking about?”

R paused for a long time. So long, in fact, that Enjolras was nearly about to repeat the question before he opened his mouth to speak. “I’m not sure,” he said.

“You’re not sure…? Of what?”

“I’m not sure what I’m thinking about,” he explained.

“Ah, I see…Well…I hope you discover what it is you’re thinking about,” Enjolras sputtered, unsure what the appropriate response was meant to be. Suddenly, Grantaire turned in his seat to face the other directly. He stared into Enjolras’ eyes with a new intensity that he had not harbored for the waves.

“Have you ever woken up and felt like you missed something?” he asked. Enjolras nearly choked.

“W-what do you mean?”

“I mean, like…” Grantaire held up his hand as if he were holding an imaginary ball and began gesturing dramatically, as if it would explain his point. “Like you wake up, and you feel kind of…empty. Not empty like sad, but empty like…like you’re missing someone. But you don’t know who it is,”

Enjolras stared at him blankly. Did he know? Was this all just a plot to get him to admit to the visits himself? The blonde studied Grantaire’s face earnestly, but found only his intense, but hopeful eyes. They were large and rounded, and his lips were parted slightly like they usually were when he was asleep. He looked so _lost_ , and in need of being understood. The leader blinked a few times and nodded slowly.

“I suppose I know the feeling,”

“I’ve felt like that _every morning_ for a long time,” Grantaire sighed and leaned back against the bench. “I don’t know what to do,”

Enjolras felt a pang of guilt. Of course, he couldn’t know for sure that it was he who was causing the man this discomfort, but it seemed all the signs led to that conclusion. He reached a hesitant hand out to rub the artist’s shoulder briefly.

“Perhaps it’s just a side effect of the pills,” he suggested,

“Maybe…” R chewed on the idea for a while. “You’re probably right,”

Enjolras just nodded and stayed silent for a while, then got to his feet. “Well I should get home,”

“As should I,” Grantaire rose. “I’ll see you later, Enjy,”

“Enjolras,”

“Whatever you say,” he smiled and started trudging off in the opposite direction.

•••

A week later, Enjolras had grown so used to his nightly journey that he performed it without thought. He made his way to Grantaire’s, let himself in and placed his things on the chair by the door. He climbed under the covers and adjusted himself to fit in the crook of the artist’s bent body, wrapping his arms around his waist. The blond buried his nose in Grantaire’s curls, inhaling deeply. No matter which position he started out in, they always ended up intertwined like rope, so he figured he might as well just begin the same way. And he’d be lying if he said it didn’t help—the closer he got to the man, the more quickly he seemed to attain sleep.

He was just on the verge of unconsciousness, when he felt a slight tickle in his nose. Grantaire’s hair was brushing against it in a manner that came dangerously close to sneeze-inducing. He pulled back, squeezing his eyes shut and holding his breath. After a few seconds, he let out the air and returned his face to its previous position. A loud noise was not something he could afford at this point.

Of course, that was when it came. As if waiting for the opportune moment, the tickle in his nose finally got the best of him, and Enjolras let out an enormous sneeze. He froze when the form tangled against his own flinched, too scared to look down and evaluate the consequences. Eventually, he lowered his gaze. His heart stopped. Grantaire’s eyes were half opened, staring up at him with a strange, amused smile playing at his lips. The blonde was speechless—frozen completely and unable to form a full thought.

Enjolras curled into himself and retreated from the other’s grasp. “I…” he trailed off, his heart pounding all sorts of irregular rhythms that Joly would have a fit about.

“I _knew_ it,” Grantaire whispered, and suddenly he leaned forward and brushed his lips against Enjolras’ neck. He planted soft kisses along the hollow of it, then settled back down into the pillow and smiled dreamily up at him. Though Enjolras had no idea what was going on, the absence of artist’s lips felt tangible. He reached a disbelieving hand up to brush the spots he had kissed.

“How…”

“Go to sleep, Enjolras,” R whispered, shutting his eyes and curling closer to him. He wrapped his arms around the blonde’s waist and pressed his face against his chest. He nuzzled into it warmly. Enjolras lay there with his eyes wide and his fingers still dancing over his skin. He had absolutely no idea what had just happened or what was going on, but he was positive that he had never been so blissfully happy as in that moment. He brought his hand down from his own neck to wrap around Grantaire’s back and pull him closer, then brought his lips down to rest against his forehead.

“Call me Enjy,” he whispered.

 


End file.
